


Something That I Want

by frickinggzazzed



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M, Occasional swearing, aggresive overuse of italics + ellipsis + parenthases, also this is my first fic so plz no yelling, amazingthief, danisnotblonde, frying pan violence, it's also unbeta'd, rapunzel!dan, the smoulder, thief!phil, u have no idea how tempting it was to just rewrite the entire movie, yay!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 11:58:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10334159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frickinggzazzed/pseuds/frickinggzazzed
Summary: Phil meets a cute boy under unconventional circumstances. Perhaps fairytales aren't complete rubbish after all.a.k.a: a dnp x tangled crossover ft. poor attempts at humor and a severe lack of originality.for Adie <3





	

**Author's Note:**

> Any original content from the Tangled film belongs to whichever big companies in the sky and I don't intend to upset them. Suing me is Not Worth It plz i'm a soft one.

“After him!” a palace guard shrieks.

Phil stumbles, every muscle in his body begging him to slow down but his mind knows if he’s caught, he’s dead. The crown in his leather satchel weighs him down (who knew gems could be so heavy?) but he sprints, dodging trees, moss-covered boulders and shrubs alike in a desperate attempt to get away. There’s no time to take in the beautiful scenery of the forest around him as he runs alongside the foot of a cliff, the impending sound of hooves growing louder and louder. Sooner or later, their horses will catch up to him.

Phil dives behind a boulder just in time. The air blows his fringe away from his forehead as they race past, stirring up a breeze with how fast they’re going. Chest heaving and mind spinning, Phil remains frozen in place for a good minute. He has to be careful from here on out; palace horses are notorious for their ability to track a fugitive by their scent. It’s an odd but effective crime deterrent.

Finally rising to his feet, Phil attempts to lean against the cliff wall and open up the satchel to check the crown’s still in one piece. In actuality, he stumbles through the dense hanging vines. There’s some sort of hidden cave there, apparently. _Perfect, a place to hide out in until nightfall._ With a final glance around to make sure he’s not being followed, Phil pushes apart the vines with his hands and enters the cave.

Only, it’s not a cave. It’s more of a passageway. A short distance away, Phil can make out a light leading to, he assumes, more forest. _Great,_ he thinks, inching his way towards the other side of the tunnel until, holy shit. That’s high.

When his eyes finally adjust to the light, Phil is greeted by a fairytale-esque view. Fifty, no at least seventy, feet high in the air stands the tallest tower he’s ever seen. Behind it, a gentle waterfall cascades off the cliff’s edge into a small, clear creek. The sun peeks in over the towering (ha) rocky walls surrounding the otherwise open area. Birds chirp sweetly in the trees and green moss and ivy have rooted themselves on the building's walls.

The sole feature decorating its’ facade besides the lavender roofing is a single window facing him, positioned a meager sixty feet up. Phil glances back behind him, weighing his options. He could go back out into the forest and risk capture and/or execution for his crime, _or_ he could hide out in this tower for a bit. By the looks of it, Phil assumes it’s an abandoned hideaway for the royal family or something; the perfect place to lay low for a bit.

He decides he’d prefer to continue breathing. Unfortunately for Phil, that one window seems to be the only way in...

\----

With mother out getting supplies for dinner, Dan’s expected to make sure the kitchen’s spick and span for when she returns. Washing the dishes isn’t exactly his favorite chore (his hair tends to get all wet and soapy) but anything to pass the time, he supposes.

That seems to be all he thinks about these days.

Dan’s nearly eighteen now and for as long as he can remember, he’s been stuck up in this tower. Growing up hearing unnerving stories about cannibals and thugs (among other dangers) from Mother has made him wary of the world outside, but frankly, now that he’s older, he can’t help but wonder if any of them are true. Dan’s been known to stir up mischief every once in awhile, but he’s never gone as far as to try climbing down on his own. Dan doesn’t wanna risk it on the off chance there really are cannibals outside. His heart races at the thought of running away, and it’s this long-standing fear that keeps him safe at home. Well, that and his over-protective mother.

She says that if Dan were ever to go out into the world, too many people would go after his wavy, brunet hair and its magical healing qualities. Yeah, that’s right. Dan’s got a superpower. The problem is, if anyone were to try and cut his hair to sell it, it would lose its power and wither up. For proof, there’s a single silvery tuft he keeps tucked behind his left ear. Apparently some thief tried to take some magic for themselves when he was a boy. How rude.

And so, here he is. This tower keeps him safe from the dangerous outside world and all its greed. At least, that’s what Mother says. And why shouldn’t Dan believe her? She’s out there risking her life for him _right now_. The least he can do is listen to what she says, wash these dishes, and be a good son. Although... it does get boring.

Waking up each morning at 7 am, Dan whiles away the hours with all kinds of hobbies, ranging from chess to sewing to ventriloquy. You name it, Dan’s probably tried it. He especially likes painting, however. Nearly every square inch of the walls in his room is decorated by some design: patterns and scenes that have come to his head in the hours he spends staring into space. Bright greens of the trees he looks down on from his window, the crystal blue of the birds that sometimes find themselves on his windowsill, the cheerful yellow of the sun which shines in day after day; painting is the only thing that keeps him sane.

Oh, and Pascal. Pascal is Dan’s best friend, who also happens to be a chameleon. Thanks to Pascal, Dan’s become quite an expert at hide and seek. To be fair, though, there’s only so many places they can hide.

\----

Dan’s no stranger to imagining things - eighteen years isolated in a tower sure can mess with one’s head - but he swears he’s not imagining the grumbling that’s coming from outside as he towel-dries an iron frying pan.

“This tower better be - _grunt_ \- filled with gold or something ‘cuz - _phew_ \- I swear, I’m practically - _pause to wipe his brow_ \- orbiting the Earth right now.”

There’s no way Dan’s imagining _that_. Still clutching the pan, Dan tucks it under his arm and jumps behind a nearby bookshelf. Using all his strength, he begins to reel his hair in, bunching it up in his arms. To be honest, Dan’s in a bit of a panic: whatever thief currently climbing his tower is surely after his hair’s magic.

The window flies open and light streams in, as does an exasperated (albeit fit-looking) man. The thief pauses, luckily facing away from Dan, to look in the satchel on his shoulder and sighs, “Phew, alone at last.”

In an uncharacteristic burst of confidence, Dan takes the opportunity to strike the man on the back of the head with his frying pan. He scampers quickly back to safety behind the bookshelf with a yelp.

The thief falls to the ground with a thud. He’s out cold.

\----

Phil awakes with a start. His head is pounding, his ear’s oddly wet, and a quick look around jogs his memory. _Oh right. The tower._

He also seems to be bound tightly to a chair. Instinctively, he shifts under the thick, brown rope. Or, wait a second. That’s not rope. It’s far too soft and smells faintly of coconut. His eyes follow the coiling strand of...

“Is this... hair?” Phil wonders aloud, adjusting his shoulders and pulling his wrists in the direction of his body in an attempt to free himself from _whatever_ it is. The light coming in through the window illuminates only fragments of the room; Phil can just barely make out scattered tendrils looping on the floor in front of him, draped over furniture, and even hanging over a ceiling beam. The dark, slightly wavy strand seems endless.

He tries to follow it around the room as if there were a puzzle to solve or a key to find - perhaps there’s a pot of gold at the end? - but the sound of someone clearing their throat up in the rafters causes him to jump. He jerks his head towards the source of the noise and, squinting, spots a figure cowering in the shadows up above him.

“S-struggling.... struggling is pointless,” they stutter. A palace guard would surely know how to do a basic interrogation, but this person’s voice is shaking. You’d think they’d instill more confidence in soldiers at Palace Guard School or whatever.

Then, with practiced ease, they hop down from the rafters, landing first on a ledge, then a cabinet, followed by the sound of two bare feet hitting the stone floor. Phil still can’t see their face but he can just barely make out a weapon of some sort in their hands. His heart leaps into his throat.

But something about this doesn’t seem right. Why the interrogation? They’re clearly after the irreplaceable crown he stole, why not just take it from him and lock him up? 

“I know why you’re here,” they continue, “and... I’m not afraid of you.” Phil can’t help his confusion and an exasperated “what?” escapes his lips. Afraid of _him?_

The figure takes a moment to step into the light. It’s not some palace guard at all, rather, a (somewhat attractive) guy dressed in a deep purple vest and cream-colored pants. And holding a frying pan, of all things. Phil feels foolish for ever being scared. 

But what really catches his attention is that the hair seems to belong to this boy. As in, he can see it cascading off his bare shoulders and onto the floor. The same color and texture hair that’s keeping him trapped in this chair. This kid must have some damn good conditioner.

Raising said frying pan with a renewed sense of conviction, he asks Phil, “Who are you, and how did you find me?”

Phil can’t help but stare now that he’s stepped into the light - he needs a second to really take it all in. For one, his eyes are mesmerizing. Chocolate but with little gold flecks decorating his irises. Phil can see the detail in them from a yard away. They compliment his fair skin, dotted intermittently with freckles and smooth like he’s been bathing in lotion his whole life. (For all Phil knows, maybe he has.) His cheeks have a gentle crimson glow about them, probably because he just jumped down from so high-up. Phil rotates his head to glance back up at the ledge from which the boy jumped but is brought back to his senses once again by the boy’s tight, almost angry-sounding voice.

“Who are you, and _how_ did you find me!” the boy repeats, raising the pan higher. Phil decides now would be a good time to speak before he uses that frying pan for something _other_ than making Phil a yummy stir fry. He clears his throat; this first impression could mean life or death (although, in this case, Phil doubts this kid actually has the guts to hurt him).

In his lowest, most silvery voice, Phil begins, “I know not who you are, nor how I came to find you. But may I just say?” This is it, time to lay down the charm:

“Hi.” And with that greeting, Phil gives his captor the smoothest, most flirtatious smirk he can manage. He’s gone all in, with the eyebrow raise and everything. 

The boy just scoffs. Phil presses on.

“How ya doin? The name’s Phil Lester.” It wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried to flirt his way out of a situation. “I’d offer a hand but mine are currently bound to the chair so...” he trails off. But the boy refuses to play along.

“Who else knows my location, _Phil Lester?_ ” Phil decides he likes the way this guy says his name, the way it rolls off his tongue. Even with that frying pan threatening to knock him out again. But he’s still rather confused.

“Listen, Wavy-”

“-Dan,” the captor interjects. Hm, it suits him.

“-Dan,” Phil repeats. “Here’s the thing. I was in a situation, galavanting through the forest, I came across your tower, and...” His eyes go wide and he draws in a breath sharply. _Where’s the satchel?_

“Oh.. oh no,” Phil’s stomach sinks; it's no longer slung over his shoulder. His eyes dart frantically around the room. _Dan_ must have done something with it.

“Where is my satchel?!”

Dan gets a smug look on his face and crosses his arms defiantly. “I’ve hidden it. Somewhere you’ll never find it.”

Damn this kid. Phil briefly glares at him before breaking eye contact to scan the room. _Now, where would I hide a satchel if I were him?_

In that cabinet? Nope, that would be too obvious. Under the bed? Not likely, he’d see it from here if it was... What about that oddly-placed decorative pot just a couple of feet away? Why would such a nice piece of pottery like that be on the ground?

Phil makes a wild guess: “It’s in that pot, isn’t it?” 

He knows by the way Dan’s eyes widen that he’s guessed correctly. He only has a moment of satisfaction, however, before... wait wait wait WAIT!!!

BANG! And the room goes black again.

\----

Dan is starting to feel bad about the number of times he’s knocked this poor guy out, but Phil’s still a danger. Stranger danger; really fit, suave, northern-sounding and blue-eyed stranger... danger.

He decides to stash the satchel somewhere else - out of plain sight this time - and wake this guy up. Maybe Phil could be of some use to him.

“Go on, Pascal. It worked last time.”

The chameleon jumps off Dan’s outstretched hand and onto Phil’s shoulder. Dan averts his eyes as Pascal sticks his tongue in Phil’s ear. It gives him the shivers.

It takes a second, but Phil awakes quickly, grimacing, raising his shoulder to his ear in an attempt to wipe it off.

"Would you stop that?" he complains.

“ _Now_ I’ve hidden it where you’ll never find it.” Dan’s feeling more confident now that he’s pretty sure this guy’s not here to hurt him. But he remains wary.

“So...” Dan begins circling the chair, flicking a - particularly annoying - strand of hair out of his face. “What do you want with my hair? To cut it? _Sell it?!_ ” Dan waves the pan in front of Phil’s face, then holds it to his neck as if it were a knife. Phil seems adequately intimidated. Good.

“No!” Wait, did he say no? “Listen, the only thing I want is to get out of your hair. Literally!”

Dan would snicker if he wasn’t so intent on being serious.

“So wait... You really _don’t_ want my hair?”

The confusion seems to be mutual. “Why on Earth would I want your hair? Listen, I was being chased, I saw a tower, I climbed it. End of story.” He seems to be telling the truth.

Pascal climbs onto Dan’s shoulder and stares Phil down, squinting suspiciously. The room is silent for a tense couple of seconds but Phil looks a little unnerved by the chameleon. Pascal _can_ be a little overkill sometimes. But he gives Dan the nod of approval, and Dan can always trust his judgment.

“One moment please.” Dan turns around, holding Pascal in his hand. He needs to talk things through a bit.

\----

“Not going anywhere, Wavy.” Phil chimes in. The small sigh of exasperation at being called ‘Wavy’ makes Phil chuckle.

Dan then turns around to talk to that... frog? Amphibian of some kind? Whatever it is, Phil knows he does _not_ like the feeling of its’ tongue in his ear. He guesses by the way he’s conversing with it that Dan must not get out much.

Now that Dan’s facing away from him, Phil takes the opportunity try and wiggle his way out of his... bindings. Using his entire body weight, he scoots the chair in the direction of the window he came in, only to be stopped short when Dan turns around to glare at him. Their eyes lock and Phil almost blushes. Almost.

“Okay, _Phil Lester,_ ” Dan begins, turning back towards Phil and narrowing his eyes. “I’m prepared to offer you a deal.”

“Deal?!” Phil can’t stop the annoyance from creeping into his voice. He’s not really in the mood for bargaining right now. Not when his satchel’s nowhere to be seen and that iguana’s staring into his soul.

“Yeah, look this way.” And with that, Dan pulls on his hair, spinning Phil’s chair around ninety degrees to face the fireplace. The chair teeters on its leg, nearly tipping all the way over but not quite. That was _close_. Phil lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Do you know what these are?” Dan says, gesturing to some painting on the wall of... the lanterns? At least that’s what it looks like.

“You mean the lantern thing they do every year for the prince?” Jeez, Dan really _has_ been living under a rock. Or... in a tower.

Dan's face lights up as he turns back towards the painting, excitement in his eyes. He mumbles something under his breath about stars. It’s kind of endearing.

Moments later, Dan steels himself. “Well, tomorrow night, they will light the night sky with these so-called _lanterns._ ” Dan then points the frying pan down at Phil, laying down his demands. “You will act as my guide, take me to see these lanterns, and return me home safely. Then, and only then, will I return your satchel to you. That is my deal.”

“Uh yeah... No can do, Wavy,” Phil counters. “You see, the kingdom and I aren’t exactly,” - how should he word this? - “...on good terms right now so I won’t be taking you anywhere.” Dan’s cute and all but Phil’s not exactly sure he’s willing to risk his life for him. Dan should just hand over the satchel now and he’d be on his way out. Nobody gets hurt.

But Dan remains determined to come to some sort of compromise.

“Listen, _Phil._ ” Dan grabs hold of the length of hair currently restraining Phil, effectively pulling the chair towards him. “Something brought you here. Fate? Destiny?”

“My legs?” Phil adds, under his breath. He’s started to ache after all that uncharacteristic running and climbing. 

“So I’ve made the decision to trust you-”

“-a horrible decision, really.”

“But trust _me_ when I say this:” He yanks Phil forward again using his hair, causing the seat to tip towards Dan. 

Suddenly their faces are just inches apart, and Phil can feel Dan’s breath brush across his skin. There’s a feeling in his gut that he can’t quite name. He gulps nervously. 

“You could tear this tower apart brick by brick, but without my help, you will _never_ find your precious satchel.” The intensity in Dan’s expression tells Phil he’s definitely not bluffing. What else can he do but agree? He clears his throat.

“Let me get this straight. I take you to see the lanterns, bring you back home, and you’ll give me back my satchel?”

“I promise,” comes Dan’s reply. Phil raises a skeptical eyebrow. “And when I promise something, I never, ever, break that promise.”

He’s not entirely convinced, but the lizard (gecko?) thing is nodding along. And looking back in Dan’s eyes, those soft, molten chocolate eyes, he sees how much Dan must really want this. But one last attempt to woo his way out of the situation can’t hurt, right?

“Alright, I didn’t want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice... Here comes The Smoulder.” 

If he were in a movie, every time Phil played this card a saxophone riff would surely play. The Smoulder is his signature move, known to make _anyone_ \- and Phil means anyone - swoon. Peering up through his eyelashes, tilted head, pursed lips...

Dan just squints. Well, _that_ doesn’t usually happen.

Phil holds the look for a few more seconds before ultimately admitting defeat. “Okay fine! I’ll take you to see the lanterns!” It’s just one night, maybe he could actually pull this off? Phil just wants to get this done, find his satchel, and go.

Although... the way Dan’s jumping up and down right now is pretty adorable. Maybe this won’t be the worst twenty-four hours after all.

\----

“You coming, Wavy?” Phil calls back up at Dan. He’s halfway down the tower (climbing down is significantly scarier than climbing up) but Dan’s still there on the window ledge, clutching his hair and looking out. He also seems to be singing something?

Then, out of nowhere, he jumps. Phil’s heart leaps into his throat and he almost yells out until he sees that Dan’s using his hair to repel down. Seriously, what kind of conditioner does this guy use? Dan’s giggling as his hair billows in the wind, and Phil has to hug the wall closer to avoid a collision. If the guards don’t kill him first, this kid might actually get the job done.

Dan stops just short of the ground, hanging inches away from the fresh, green grass. Phil would question him if it weren’t for the fact that his arms are definitely not built to support his body weight for as long as they have, and he’d rather focus on ideally _not_ falling to his death. There’s some more singing going on below him but all that’s going through Phil’s head is _right hand, right foot, breathe. Wow, that’s high up... okay now left foot, SHIT that’s definitely not a good footrest..._

Eventually, he makes it down, only mildly rattled. He crosses his arms and leans against the tower wall, catching his breath. Phil takes a moment, watching as Dan frolics animatedly around - rolling in the grass, dipping his feet in the stream, picking up a dandelion and blowing its seeds into the breeze (which fly right into Phil’s face, actually) - absolutely carefree. They make eye contact and instantly Phil’s heart softens.

It’s been a strange day, but you know what? Maybe this won’t be too bad after all.

 

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank u so much for reading!!!


End file.
